


Dressing Room Conversations

by lilian_ariana



Category: Berlin Station (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Friendship, Humour, Multi, Pre-Season/Series 01, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-23 08:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20005561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilian_ariana/pseuds/lilian_ariana
Summary: What Hector and Shirley talk about when they're not talking about treason. Which is mainly Hector's messy love life, much to his dismay.





	1. Intro - Sanctuary, Albeit With Gossip

**Author's Note:**

> You didn't think I was done writing about Berlin Station, did you?  
> Not while I still have about a dozen WIPs and hastily jotted down ideas to play with lying around! (And I probably won't be done then, either.)
> 
> I finally got around to starting to re-watch the first season during my summer vacation, and consequently also to revisiting a few of the ancient WIPs I started working on before season two even aired.  
> Hector and Julian/Shirley's relationship is so complex and fascinating, there's a lot to unpack there - but here, I just wanted to go for the lighthearted side we only got a little glimpse of. I just love that scene of the two of them in Shirley's dressing room in episode three (and Shirley's "man trouble" comment cracks me up every time). Given that Shirley apparently knows pretty much everything there is to know about what's going on in Hector's sex life, I figured they must have had all kinds of entertaining conversations on the subject - so I wrote a few of them. Also, at some point my subconscious decided that Shirley totally ships Hector/Faisal, because why wouldn't she? (Projecting? Me? Surely not...)
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this one - hopefully someone will get some fun out of reading it, too!

Ever since Shirley Pimple exploded into Hector's life in all her gloriously rainbow-hued and glittery fabulousness, her workplace has become one of his most frequent nocturnal destinations.

Somehow, strange as it sometimes still seems, over the past couple of years this noisy, colourful oasis has become his sanctuary, his escape from station business, dirty dealings and politics, and all manner of other things clamoring for Thomas Shaw's eventual attention.

Here, in the basement of a dimly lit club, surrounded by swathes of lace and tulle, gaudy jewellery, glitter and rhinestones, he has found a home away from home. While the other performers may have looked at him askance the first few times he ended up whiling the night away in Shirley's dressing room, he has long since become a fixture in it and they all greet him with exuberant flair whenever he turns up.

He's well aware that there's a multitude of rumours swirling amongst all the ladies about what exactly he and Shirley are to each other. There's even a betting pool trying to obtain conclusive evidence of how it is they are involved. Maybe when they figure it out, they'll let him know – because fuck if he knows how to define their peculiar relationship. They are partners in crime, the walking wounded, victim and perpetrator, two fucked up people in a fucked up world – and somewhere along the way, they've become friends who tease each other about their personal lives (or lack thereof). Whatever it is, it works for them. Even if he does wish Shirley would keep her nose out of his sex life sometimes.


	2. Just Business

The first time Hector follows Julian's invitation to drop by the club's dressing room as he and "the other girls", as he chooses to describe his co-workers, get ready for the evening's performance, it's like stepping into another world.

He's been to the club as a customer, sure, most recently just a couple of days ago, but to be allowed to step behind the curtain like this is something else altogether.

It's boisterous, colourful, extravagant chaos, he sticks out like a sore thumb and feels right at home as he is pulled through a half-open beaded curtain and directed to a chair while the strange vision he's still kind of struggling to square with the boy he knew in a desert prison continues to apply paint and glitter to an already painted and glittery face.

The transformation is only halfway done and he is utterly mesmerized by Julian – Shirley – hell, he doesn't even know which name to use.

"It's always Shirley when I'm here", the vision says, eyeing him through the mirror with a half-smile.

Is it that obvious what he was thinking?

Some spook he is.

_Shit._

He shakes his head with a wry grin and takes a healthy swallow of the fruity, boozy concoction he has thoughtfully been provided with.

"Sooo...", Shirley drawls while working some inexplicable magic with a tiny brush and the contents of half a dozen little tins, "tell me about your date the other night."

"... Date?"

His mind momentarily blanks. He'd remember a date, surely.

" _You_ know... Tall, dark and gorgeous? Wouldn't take his eyes off of you all night? The same night _we_ met again? _Any_ of this ring a bell?"

_Ah._

He groans.

_Right._

"That wasn't a date. That was just business", he replies, sounding not even a little bit defensive. Nope.

"Uh-huh... he sure meant business, alright", she croons suggestively, wriggling her eyebrows for emphasis. "Mixing business and pleasure, someone's a naughty boy..."

"Shut up", Hector grumbles into his drink, "we're not talking about this. I told you, it was business. And even if it weren't, it's none of yours. My personal life is not relevant to what you and I have to talk about."

If ever there was a sentence that was bound to come back and bite him in the ass, it was that one. But for now, Shirley just leans back to study her work in the mirror, looking entirely too pleased with herself, as she murmurs "Whatever you say, darling" in a tone that implies the exact opposite.


	3. Flowergirl

Shirley doesn't bother turning around, just watches him in the mirror as he shuffles in, drops into his accustomed seat and pours himself a drink – a cheap-ass vodka this time, bound to give him one hell of a hangover tomorrow, but who the fuck cares. It's just been that kind of a day.

"Sooo...", she drawls once he's done, "How fares the fair Clare?"

Hector stares morosely into his glass.

"She's gone. Off to fuck knows where for fuck knows how long, doing something or other very fucking important that I'm not supposed to know about."

"... _Do_ you know?"

"Nah. Couldn't be bothered."

He drains his drink and pours another.

"She's tough, she'll be fine. She'll tell me when she gets back."

"Hmm", Shirley replies noncommitally, lifting her eyes to meet his through the mirror. "At least you'll finally get some work done again. You're completey useless when that one's around, you know."

Hector scoffs, finishes his second drink and fills the glass again.

"Maybe I'll marry her", he says entirely out of the blue, surprising even himself.

" _You?_ Enter into the state of matrimony and abandon your philandering ways? Oh _please_. I'll believe that when I see it."

"My _philandering ways_?!", he echoes incredulously, pausing for a moment to drink, "Where the hell do you get your vocabulary from these days?!"

"Oh, I don't know...", she says airily, waving a perfectly manicured hand while levelling a pointed look at him, "It must be all the questionable company I keep."

He wisely refrains from commenting on that and chooses to pour another drink instead, brings the glass to his lips, ---

"But if you _do_ marry her, do I get to be the flowergirl?"

\--- and promptly chokes on his beverage.

Sometimes, he could swear she keeps that pile of glittery fabric heaped conveniently next to his chair just so he won't find something more unpleasant to throw at her.


	4. Not Happening, Period

Hector trudges into Shirley's dressing room with a worldweary air, dropping into his usual spot without a word.

"Well, hello to you, too!" She doesn't turn around, just fixes him with a pointed look through the mirror.

He ignores her, roots around in the pile of random crap scattered around and retrieves the whiskey bottle and glass Shirley keeps stashed there for him nowadays. Having located his objective, he pours himself a drink and drains it in one go, still seeming discinclined to talk.

"Come on now, what's the matter with you today?", she prompts impatiently.

"... It's nothing."

"Uh-huh... so, who is she?"

"No idea what you're talking about."

"That's the face you make when your love life goes to shit."

He mutters something uncomplimentary under his breath and runs his hand through his hair. Repeatedly.

"You keep that up and you won't have any hair left. Now, spill. Who is this mystery woman you've got your panties in a twist for?"

Grudgingly accepting that there is nothing to be gained by trying to pretend he can't hear her, he grinds out through gritted teeth: "There. Is. No. Woman."

"Ah. But is there a _man_?" She is now sufficiently intrigued to have abandoned her make-up and actually turned to face him.

He doesn't look at her, toying with his empty glass instead. It tells her everything she needs to know.

"Well now...", she drawls, "so who is _he_ then? What's his name?"

Hector squeezes his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose and dearly regrets setting foot in the club today. "Jesus _Christ_."

Shirley arches an eyebrow. "Surely not."

"Very funny."

If looks could kill, she'd be tumbling off her chair right about now... but she knows him well enough to be not even the slightest bit intimidated by his shitty attitude. It just reinforces her conviction that she's on to something.

Finally he sighs, conceding defeat. For now, anyway.

"One of my agents has a thing for me." Understatement of the year.

She motions for him to go on.

"Basically, either I sleep with him or he stops working with us." He sighs and reaches for the bottle again.

Shirley looks simultaneously bemused and impressed. "And here I thought it's usually you people who manipulate others into doing your bidding. So what's the problem? And _don't_ tell me it's against the rules, that's never stopped you from doing whatever you pleased before. What, is he ancient? Fat? Horrendously ugly? All of the above?"

"... None of the above." _In for a penny..._ "You've seen him, actually. Ages ago. Brought him here with me once."

This has her puzzled for a moment before it dawns on her. "... Wait. Don't tell me. Mr Tall, Dark And Gorgeous, Definitely-Not-A-Date?"

He nods imperceptibly.

"But... he's cute! What's wrong with him?"

Hector takes a sip of his whiskey before answering.

"Apart from 'sleeping with your agents is a very fucking bad idea' and the fact that this shit could get him killed? His employer is what's wrong with him."

"How so?"

Saying nothing, he levels a meaningful look at her.

"Oooh... you mean he's--" She flutters her hands in a manner he assumes is meant to indicate something spooky – "One of your lot?"

Another sigh, another sip.

"Same game. _Very_ different team."

"Huh." She seems momentarily perplexed. "It's always the ones you least suspect..."

He rolls his eyes at that.

"That's rather the point of being a covert operative, Shirley."

Draining his glass for the second time, he decides this is quite enough heart-to-heart for the time being.

"Anyway. Doesn't matter. It's not happening, period."

Before whatever further burning questions she might have can tumble out of her already opening mouth, he shoots her a warning look, severe enough that even Shirley knows to back off.

"Drop it. I'm serious."

"Fine, fine..." She concedes with a placating gesture and turns back to her mirror, though the expression he sees in her reflection tells him that the subject will undoubtedly be raised again.

He might as well have another drink for fortification.

*~*~*~*

Leaving the hotel a few nights later, Hector makes his way to the club almost on autopilot - against his better judgment.

Not that his judgment is proving particularly trustworthy today.

But ill-advised or not, he needs the familiar environment and its brightly lit colourful distraction to get his head on straight again, never mind the inevitable pun.

And anyway... _Shirley doesn't have to know,_ he thinks as he walks towards her dressing room, where last minute touch-ups before the evening's first performance are well underway.

Of course, he doesn't even make it all the way to his chair before Shirley takes one look at him through the mirror, promptly whirls around and crows: "Ooooh, somebody got _laid_..."

She just knows him too fucking well – and much as he might outwardly grumble and swear, he actually rather likes that thought.


End file.
